Disclaimer: Not mine…
Summary: Written for this BBC kinkmeme prompt:
'John goes on a date with Sarah. Sherlock gets p!ssed off with this, so asks Molly out to show John that HELL YEAH BITCH I CAN GET A DATE TOO.
Except Molly says no. Cause she's sick of him.'
It can't be so bad, he muses, his mouth twisting despite this reassuring thought, as his potential victim fusses over her latest cadaver. Just one dinner, and then he'll have proved him wrong, his stupid flatmate and his equally woolly-headed date…
Blondie is standing in the doorway, breathing in her usual irritating fashion. The Betrayer is wrestling on his coat.
"Sherlock, I can't help you now, I'm going on a date."
"What - again?"
"Good God. How many of these things do you need to suffer through?"
Blondie - no, Sarah, Sarah, must call her Sarah - giggles brightly.
"Haven't you ever been dating, Sherlock?"
"What, him?" The Betrayer snorts. Blond - Sarah sniggers again. Sherlock is rankled.
The Betrayer puts his arm around Bl - Sarah and waves goodbye at him, with a muffled, "Yeah, right."
Sherlock decides it there and then.
He'll show him.
He inspects his victim carefully. She's…well. Mousy is the first word that enters his head. Mousy. And nice. And dull. She'll spend the dinner chattering about her cat, and her mother, and some silly literature course which she is obviously on, and the new cutlery she bought the other day. She won't even think about talking about something interesting like dead people, at least not on a date. Urgh. Maybe she'll try flirting with him. Oh god. Maybe he shouldn't do this.
And then he thinks about that damn smug look on The Betrayer's face. Humph. We'll see about that.
He fixes his face into a smile - no, a welcoming one Sherlock, not a horrible rictus, come on - and then adjusts his face accordingly.
"Molly!" he says, as if he has only just entered the room.
She looks up quickly, and bursts into a silly little happy smile. Oh god. He's going to get a date. He was hoping he wouldn't, but that smile said it all. She's just dying to jump him. Bugger.
He wanders over, casually, practising normal. It itches under his skin, makes him jumpy. "Enjoying your - " he glances at the body " - forty-two year old divorced banker with four children?"
Her eyes go wide. He loves it when he does that.
"I. Uh," she says, glancing at the deceased, then gives him a half smile. She's wearing lipstick again, which is better than nothing he supposes. "Right again!"
He sniffs, can't help but show off. "Of course I was."
She smiles nervously again, evil lipstick stretching. There is a short silence. Why is she staring at him?
"Er. Was there something you wanted - ?" she prompts.
"Oh." Oh god. Okay, Sherlock. Just. Just get this over with.
He's always been good at acting. He leans against the cadaver's shiny metal table and then flashes her his most alluring smile. He knows it is alluring. He's been practising it in the mirror.
"When do you get off?" he asks, blending together just the right amount of devoted interest and pretend casualness into his voice. Fantastic. He's doing wonderfully.
She frowns a little, then smiles anyway. He's getting really sick of that smile. Oh well. It'll be worth it when she says yes and he gets to rub it in The Betrayer's face. Maybe he'll even take her back to the flat, although he's not sure he'll be able to stomach that. Still, worthy sacrifices and all that.
"Um, seven," she says.
Okay, Sherlock, time to look shy. He hesitates a minute. Shy, come on, shy, surely you can fake that one. Except he can't. He's never been shy in his life.
Luckily, she seems to take his hesitance as shyness itself. "Why do you ask?" she says gently.
Look, she's practically put it on a silver platter and served it to you. Say it. And don't sound as if you're spitting out poison.
"I wondered if you might like to have dinner," he says, very quickly. "I mean, after your shift. Uh. Or a drink, or something…"
Oh shit. Here it is. She's going to jump on you or something, brace yourself -
"I'm sorry, but I don't really want to," she says.
Sherlock nods. "Okay, I'll pick you up out - " His brain catches up with his mouth. He gapes. "Sorry?" he splutters.
Good lord, she's actually giving him a pitying look. Jesus. Christ.
"I just don't like you in that way, Sherlock," she says kindly. Christ, kindly? "Sorry."
No. No way. She did not just reject him.
Maybe he did something wrong. Sounded too mocking or something. "I - I really mean it," he says desperately. "I - "
"Oh, I know you did," she says, quick to reassure him. "It's just…" She shrugs. "I'm not really interested."
There is no way he could have misread the signals. She's interested, he's sure of it. She offered him coffee!
"I thought you liked me," he says numbly, because he would hate for his only ever failed case to be Molly of all people. "I mean - you're wearing lipstick!"
Huh. It doesn't sound so impressive when he says it like that.
Mousy Molly shrugs again. "I did like you," she says flatly. "But I moved on."
"Moved on?" No one ever moves on from him!
Molly rolls her eyes. "You're not that great you know," she says. "Don't flatter yourself." She starts to bend over the corpse, then looks up again, with a soppy smile on her face, and says, "Anyway, the lipstick's for Jim."
"Jim?" Who the bloody hell is Jim?
She's looking dreamy now. "Yes," she sighs. "Civil servant. He's very nice."
This has to be a horrible nightmare. It has to be.
"Hang on, hang on, let me get this straight." Sherlock leans across the table; it's firmness helps him think. "You're rejecting me to go and have dinner with a civil servant?"
There is a sharpness in Molly's eyes that he has never seen before, and for once in all his dealings with her he is slightly unnerved. "Something wrong with that?" she snaps.
He stands back quickly. "Uh. No?"
Molly nods. "Good," she says, and returns her attention to the deceased banker.
John is halfway through buttoning up another nice shirt of his when Sherlock enters the living room, looking like he's just been told Christmas is cancelled. He scowls fiercely at the nice shirt.
"Another date?" he says sourly.
John's had quite enough of this. He turns around with a sigh. "You know, Sherlock, you really ought to ask someone out yourself, if you're going to be so grumpy."
If looks could kill, John would be stone cold dead on the floor. Sherlock flounces out of the room and slams shut his bedroom door so loudly that the whole house rattles.
John sighs and continues getting ready. Honestly. Anyone would think that asking out people was difficult.